There are people that delight in thinking Florida is flat which in point of fact is not true at all. Solares Hill, a couple of blocks east of Duval Street is variously reported to be between 14 and 18 feet above sea level. I take the middle ground and call it sixteen feet (about five meters in new money) which is, I think, a good height for a hill to be. For instance if you were planning a fishing trip on your bicycle and came this way, west on Angela Street, you could free wheel a block:
There is another hill in Key West, on Elizabeth Street near Eaton, and it, though unnamed is labeled by the presence of the Hilltop Laundry. But Solares Hill takes pride of place, by virtue of the fact that this is Key West's own Mount Everest, the top, the highest peak of all. You may even see people climbing the hill without the aid of supplemental oxygen. These hardy souls looked like visitors staying at Courtney's Place located on the South Col, just off the Hill itself:
Solares Hill isn't a straight climb. The road dips on its way up from City Hall at the corner of Simonton Street:
What makes this place odd is that in a town notorious for labelling every little non event in its tumultuous history, the highest point gets no marker. Here there is no souvenir stand, seashell vendor or tout with postcards. For the ardent labeller it is a do-it-yourself spot, and in that spirit I label this Key West's tallest house, the home with the front porch highest above the lapping waters of the Straits of Florida, one short mile to the south:
It could as easily be this imposing home across the street:
But I prefer the more modest Conch proportions of the little white house with it's sky blue trim and every time I pass I salute it as Key West's highest foundation. The other thing about Solares Hill is that it comes from nowhere and leads nowhere. It is just another street, another way to get out of town, and once you pass the crown of the hill the street levels off:
It becomes, momentarily, a modest little plaza that is actually an intersection where four roads join. At night the pink house with the drooping cantilevered extension looks quite a bit different, more imposing perhaps and a lurid shade of yellow in my viewfinder:
The lights in the distance mark Angela and Simonton Streets, the bright lights of downtown, but up here on the hill where every breath costs a climber effort, the lay of the land is much more peaceful, by day...
...and by night:
In that last picture I caught the trifecta of Key West wheels; the convertible, the scooter, and the shopping cart, something for everyone. From the intersection one can turn left onto Elizabeth and head towards the Fleming/Southard corridor, or keep going straight, down the hill towards the cemetery:
Or, if turning right one gets to freewheel a little bit back towards Truman Avenue and the main street out of Key West:
Or you could be like me and wander the hill at 4:30 in the morning and find a bunch of little alleyways, evocative and secret that I shall have to come back to check out in the cold light of day. I keep thinking I know this town and then there is a fifty yard strip of cement lined with laundry, sleeping cats and tile decorations that make a liar out of me. How provoking.
It becomes, momentarily, a modest little plaza that is actually an intersection where four roads join. At night the pink house with the drooping cantilevered extension looks quite a bit different, more imposing perhaps and a lurid shade of yellow in my viewfinder:The lights in the distance mark Angela and Simonton Streets, the bright lights of downtown, but up here on the hill where every breath costs a climber effort, the lay of the land is much more peaceful, by day......and by night:In that last picture I caught the trifecta of Key West wheels; the convertible, the scooter, and the shopping cart, something for everyone. From the intersection one can turn left onto Elizabeth and head towards the Fleming/Southard corridor, or keep going straight, down the hill towards the cemetery:Or, if turning right one gets to freewheel a little bit back towards Truman Avenue and the main street out of Key West:Or you could be like me and wander the hill at 4:30 in the morning and find a bunch of little alleyways, evocative and secret that I shall have to come back to check out in the cold light of day. I keep thinking I know this town and then there is a fifty yard strip of cement lined with laundry, sleeping cats and tile decorations that make a liar out of me. How provoking.
My wife is finally able to ride her Vespa after wrist surgery in mid-December and even though I've taken the ET4 for the occasional spin it has essentially been sitting for the past several months. Thus it was I decided the Vespa needed a proper tune up, and I chose Vespa Sarasota because Vespa Miami screwed up the repair of my GTS's fuel injection so badly that my wife no longer trusted them. Luckily I don't mind driving but getting out of bed at midnight cost me a bit. The ET4 was already loaded in the trailer, the Sirius receiver was in the car with a pillow, a blanket and directions to the store:The drive out the Keys was pleasant enough but I wasn't making great progress because I was babying my trailer and sticking to about 60 miles per hour on the cruise control. Then I heard a loud thump and shortly thereafter a rear tire started flapping ominously. I am not fond of those ridiculous doughnuts they offer as a spare tires but they actually make good sense and take up less room in the trunk. I change a car wheel like I was born to it. I kept on pressing on but it was no good, by 4:15 I was knackered and I pulled over into a rest stop.
I was out like a light, stretched out in the passenger seat snoring like a grampus. It was cool outside about 67 degrees and I was snug under my blanket but the alarm went off all too soon. By six I was back behind the wheel hammering out more darkened miles. It was no good, even though the sun started to come up I was still tired out and my imagination was playing tricks on me. Fog was wreathing the highway and I felt like i was floating a ball of cotton wool. I pulled off again and took another nap.When I woke up it was daylight and gray and the freeway was still there looking endless:
I was wishing I was there but the last miles of this 350 mile jaunt were proving to be the longest of all. I got there at dead on ten o'clock when Darren opened up his store:
I parked the car and took another nap while he started disemboweling the Vespa. Then I woke up and found a tire shop which happened to be across the street from IHOP and that solved two issues at once. Then I found a motorcycle shop and bought a new inner tube for my Bonneville. It's quite amazing how much you can accomplish on the mainland. It's like everything is on the shelf. Then I went back to the Vespa shop and...took a nap. By 1pm the ET4 was ready, cables lubricated, changed belt, rollers, air filter, spark plug, oils and a new maintenance free battery. Darren also changed the fuel hose and vacuum hose and changed the front brake fluid and adjusted both brakes. Phew! All for $600. "Take her for a test ride" he said. So I did.
The ET4 was buzzing along merrily, the brakes were perfect and I was remembering the joy of a nicely tuned Vespa. I stopped on the causeway to St Armand's Key and took a picture of Sarasota Bay, all cloudy and summery:
I have vivid memories of sailing the bay on my way somewhere and getting caught by the mother of all thunderstorms. I threw out the anchor and dived into the cabin to wait it out. Southwest Florida has the worst summer storms, but I was riding in glorious sunshine. I zipped through downtown St Armand's Key with all its Romanesque statuary and neat flower beds:
And got to the beach finally:
A mish mash of notice boards signs and prohibitions:
If you need waves crashing on the sand for visual effect or body surfing you'd be better off on Florida's East Coast, but you might be surprised how many miles of deserted beaches you can find between Anclote Key and Naples. Sarasota does have a few waterfront condos but its not that crowded really:
And the condos themselves had a largely old fashioned air to them, smaller than the canyons of the East Coast, perhaps less impersonal:
Spot the Vespa in the crush of beachfront parking? No parking hassles for me.
The hot spots downtown were quite surprising, beautifully landscaped of course but full of pedestrians. people were out and about on their own two feet all over the place. Sarasota may be today what critics fear Key West may become tomorrow:
I think Hemingway would have run a mile had anyone suggested this piece of faux Key West architecture could have constituted a retreat for him. On the other hand he was pretty fed up with tourists in Key West in 1938 so the Southernmost City in the 21st century wouldn't have done much for him either. Looking carefully at these street scenes two thing stick out one is , how clean and tidy it is and...
...how few residentially challenged citizens there are. More accurately there are none. I wonder what they did with them? They do have public transportation and these signs put me in my mind of Seattle's SLUT system as another acronym with attitude:
It was I admit a short tour of a pretty mainland seaside town. I had hours of freeway to get under my belt if I wanted any hope of dinner with my wife. Back across the causeway, with downtown Sarasota laid out before me:
There was some public Art I couldn't figure out downtown. There was a pile of rusty car hulks planted nose down in the ground in a circle, looking a bit like an average parking afternoon in Key West and across the street I saw this giant tooth in a park:
And no one setting up house underneath it, always a surprise. I paid my bill, said goodbye to the smart little Vespa shop with a promise to return,
and back out into the nightmare of mainland traffic:
Ease of shopping yes; but this stuff I don't miss at all. Every time I go North I wonder how it is that people aren't screaming wrecks after being squished up like this. Oh wait a minute they are, aren't they?
I had business to take care of Up North which didn't really count as a recreational trip, and I wasn't even riding two wheels, but I took some pictures as I rolled the Nissan along I-75, known as Alligator Alley, to remind myself how much I enjoy these views. This two wheeler was why I was there:
My "business trip" was getting the wife's ET4 tuned up and owing to my recent contretemps with Vespa Miami/Ft Lauderdale she nixed having them work on her Vespa 150. So instead of a 6 hour round trip I had a 22 hour round trip to get to Vespa Sarasota and back. More on that in another essay, but these pictures, which have nothing to do with Key West are here to illustrate superficially a little of what one would see when crossing Florida on the Southernmost...Interstate. 
It's not technically a freeway, there are toll booths at each end and the charge is $2.50 for two axles and $5.00 for three. But you do get 100 miles of almost dead straight road in each direction for your money.
Alligator Alley used to be State Road 84 and opened in 1969 according to the history books. Then the powers that be took it upon themselves to widen the road and finished that job in 1992, which I remember as a mess of mud and rocks. Nowadays its a short cut from Fort Lauderdale to Naples, and very efficient it is too, with a 70 mph speed limit and all. But I still prefer the slower pace of the old, two lane Tamiami (TAMpa-MIami) Trail, which gives a much more intimate and historical view of the Everglades. I took this picture on my trip last year:
And yes, the Tamiami Trail, Highway 41, is also straight as a die for much of its way. I guess for some two wheeled users the freeway makes sense, and I saw a fair number on the Interstate. These two were between Naples and the toll booth:
What interested me is the footwear on the dude nearest my car, blue crocs on the freeway...
But he is wearing a helmet. Which made him luckier than me because he was riding while I was snugged down behind the air conditioner of the Maxima. He didn't wave as he went by.
But the brown sign behind the exit sign beckons the traveler towards more bucolic delights, the parks south of the interstate:
Between Highway 29 and Fort Lauderdale these curiosities start popping up:
I've traveled a few miles of Interstate in my time and I've never seen a sign quite like this. Or to be more accurate I've seen the signs pointing to recreation areas off Interstates, but I've never seen just a recreation area right off a freeway, a recreation area as a freeway destination in itself as it were. It's actually a boat ramp too:
Drive the Alley, launch your boat, and they have floating docks to cope with the rising and dropping water levels (mostly dropping overall as the 'glades are rather distressed these days):
The Everglades are threaded by all sorts of waterways and canals, filled no doubt with alligators and fish because you will see people lining the canal banks with rods. Others launch their boats here and take off for a day's sport among the reeds. The recreation areas also have a few modern variations on the Miccosukee Indian chickee huts for people to come out to the Interstate and enjoy a roadside picnic:
And its not just people recreating in these areas:
I recreated by taking a thirty minute nap. It had been a long day and I was completely worn out, continuing the theme of my life lately. It was a perfect afternoon, a brisk cooling breeze was blowing out of the north and there wasn't any humidity in the air. I slept like a baby with the windows down, in the vastness of the Everglades, with the car parked under the sole scrap of shade:
Lots of people use the freeway as a quick drive across the southern end of the state but there are paths and trails that head off into the back country from some of these recreation areas, and I've only explored a few of them. With rainy season upon us I may have left it too late for a return visit this spring.
Oh well, at least I got to see the big skies of south Florida once this winter. Rest and recreation after a fashion.
Grrr! One thing I wish were different on the motorbike was that the tires were tubeless as they are easier to repair than the current tires with tubes. New tubeless rims are on my wish list now, before a rev counter and a belt drive! The Nissan Maxima is a fine car but...
I got up off the table, a bit groggy, and thought to myself how pretty it looked under the street lights and what a shame I didn't have my camera with me. Oh but I did, I remembered suddenly, and with most of my lunch break snoozed away I got to work. The lense came out fogged it was damp and i got the rather nice halo effect as though mist was laying over the Key West, but the reality was rather more prosaic: I was thinking to myself that summer is finally here. On the afternoon ride into work the summer rain clouds had piled up all over the flats, big white puffy balls of cotton reflected off the turquoise waters. They deserved a picture of their own but I was late for work and busy working the throttle rather than the camera. I like the Higgs Beach/Rest Beach area not least because its close to the police station and Sandy's all-night Cuban Cafe is on the way so I can sip con leche and watch the waves, and the distant horizon while reflecting on my life.
"I'm giving you a verbal warning..." he said. I had my papers, I admitted my stupidity and I was wearing proper clothing (and I did use my signals properly, perhaps that helped) and wasn't drunk. If you think people don't drive drunk at 6am in the Lower Keys you might be surprised...
I left work last week right after we got a call about a young man who had fallen unconscious. It soon became apparent that he was in a serious way, the call taker could hear screaming and sobbing in the background as we tried to help bring him back with CPR over the phone. The day shift came in and we packed our stuff and left. As I pulled out the Bonneville onto the Boulevard the ambulance appeared from downtown, all lights and noise. I fell in behind Rescue and ambled along behind them, they headed to the hospital, me headed to the Highway and home. The ambulance was running slowly, keeping up a steady 30 miles per hour and I knew why. A firefighter was driving and keeping it steady while the paramedics attempted to revive him in the truck. It felt like a funeral cortege, as traffic bunched behind the flashing lights and I imagined him so young and so definitely dying right there in front of me, hidden only by the curtain of the ambulance door. The ambulance turned left to the hospital on Stock Island, I revved it up and took to the open road, exercising all due diligence as I wanted neither an ambulance nor another Monroe County Sheriff's Deputy in attendance on my commute that morning.
The Weather Gods did a nice job of fooling me yesterday. I stepped out of the police station after yet another night of blather on the radio ready to wallow in some more of the delicious, lubricating humidity and instead we had received (may the Lord make us truly grateful) a surprise little cold front and the wind was honking out of the north and there were sprinkles of rain in the air and temperatures had plummeted to 67 degrees. I pulled on my waterproofs, which naturally chased the rain away almost immediately but I rode home in blusterous crosswinds and pitch dark. It was entirely exhilarating and being the weekend there was almost no other traffic out at six in the morning. I was actually slightly chilled in the cold north wind, but even in the strongest gusts,estimated above 30mph by the weather service, the Bonneville tracked straight. I was riding a motorcycle that had its mind on one thing and that was finding its way to its stable. We flew (not that fast officer!) and the sensation of flight was increased by the powerful gusts that hit us as we came out of the cover of bushes and buildings into the open windswept reaches of the bridges.
Another day another dollar as they say, though the frequency of my appearance at work is getting a little much. The good news is I get to do that much more riding with all this commuting and this week I blew past the 9100 mile mark. I calculated while showering this afternoon that I have ridden 42,000 miles in the past three years since we moved into the tree house, variously on the Suzuki, the Stella (ugh!) the Vespa and the Bonneville. So many miles for such small amounts of roadway. I dread to think how many would have accumulated had there been real motorcycling destinations!